This I Believe: Life Lessons (16 page)

Sally's Monday

Patricia James

I believe in showing up. My mother avoided visiting her best friend, my godmother, as she died of lung cancer because she didn't know what to do or say. Even when Berdelle's family called to say it wouldn't be long, Mom couldn't go. She never said good-bye.

A few years later Mom died of Lou Gehrig's disease. In the days surrounding her death, our small Minnesota town transformed itself into an ark that kept our family afloat. For weeks, people did the simplest things: vacuumed, brought food, drank coffee with my father, and mowed the lawn. It all mattered.

In 2003, my dear friend, Sally, was diagnosed with lung cancer. Like Berdelle, she was a nonsmoker. Like my mom, I didn't know what to do or say. I did a flurry of research to learn all there was to know about non-small-cell carcinoma and considered training to become a hospice volunteer. Then my life partner reminded me to do what I already knew how to do: show up.

A group of Sally's friends—she called us the Divas—made sure that someone was with her every day of the week. I was Sally's Monday. Our days at the cancer center were filled with talking, knitting, and hilarity that often involved medical staff and other patients.

Back home, Sally had a list of projects. We sorted through scary accumulations of photographs, craft projects, cosmetics, old purses, wallpaper, stationery, scarves, flowerpots, books, mismatched linens, and schmaltzy knickknacks stashed in closets and cabinets. We went to the gym and cheered when Sally sustained one mile an hour on the treadmill for ten minutes. One day we traded in her car for a smaller model that everyone else drove after the cancer was in her brain. We went to the mall to buy pajamas for her husband's Christmas present. We browsed through her favorite dollar store, dropped off the latest pictures of her granddaughter Emerson to be developed, took drives in the country so she could take pictures on her new camera phone, promising we'd figure out how to download them someday. Sometimes we sat in her living room and folded laundry.

Each visit ended with a game of freestyle Scrabble for which we made new rules as needed. I knew the end was near when Sally couldn't organize her letters to be right side up and didn't remember we could make a rule allowing upside-down words.

Sally died on December 27, 2005. We hadn't had any deep conversations about dying and death—those were reserved for her beloved husband and children. With her friends, she was as much herself as she could be, and that's what she wanted. She needed her friends to show up and do the simplest things. And we did.

If You Don't Do It, Who Will?

Jodi Webb

My mom has always been involved, whether it was the church, the school, the team, or the community. And where my mom volunteered, other family members often followed. I remember her comment whenever I protested about a volunteer activity she recruited me for. “It's for the church” or “It's for the school.”

When we were growing up my mom focused most of her energy, and the family's, on those organizations because they relied on volunteers to survive. My brother ran the sound equipment for the school's annual Christmas play, my dad made bean soup for the church's summer festival, I spent a few sweltering days reorganizing the elementary school library at the end of each school year. How could anyone dare to refuse? Each demand was accompanied by that unspoken question, “If you don't do it, who will?”

For my mother, volunteering was as natural as breathing or cleaning out the closets each spring. If it needed to be done and you were capable of doing it, you did it. I like to think of our volunteering as a family trait, like blue eyes or bossiness (both of which run in the family). My grandmother, my mother, and I were all raised in the same small town populated mostly by coal miners. The residents didn't have much money, but they always had a willingness to help. When my grandparents were young, the town didn't have a church, so the miners, after spending twelve hours a day underground, built one. It's just our nature in this town.

Now as an adult and mother of three children, I have raised my hand at more meetings than I care to count, because that unspoken truth was echoing inside me. As a Girl Scout leader, I spent my Thursday evenings with sixteen energetic Brownies. As a lunchtime recruiter, I begged dozens of parents to become cafeteria helpers. I baked dozens of cookies to raise money for the school gardening club. If I didn't do it, who would?

That little question has also encouraged me to take action in other aspects of my life when I would have preferred to just stay in bed. If I don't slosh through the rain puddles to vote out an ineffective politician, who will? If I don't protect my health by cutting fat, adding calcium, and exercising, who will? If I don't turn off TV programs that are inappropriate for my children, who will?

Sometimes the responsibility that comes with that question seems overwhelming. Responsibility for yourself, your family, your community, your government, your environment. How freeing it would be to turn the obligations of life over to that anonymous group we all love to rely on: “them.” Let “them” worry about endangered whales. Let “them” pick up roadside trash. Let “them” serve on the school board. Let “them” collect tickets at a fund-raiser. But that isn't what my mother taught me. I could do it. I believe I should do it.

After all, if I don't, who will?

Here Comes (the Real) Santa Claus

Becky Sun

I believe in Santa Claus. No, I didn't always believe, but nine years ago, on Christmas Eve, he knocked on my front door and handed me a stocking filled with candy and toys.

Unlike the majority of my friends, I wasn't introduced to the jolly guy until second grade. My family emigrated from Taiwan to a small town in central Georgia, where my dad got a visa for his family and a job doctoring inmates at a nearby penitentiary. I had just learned English, and from what little I could gather from my classmates, there was this guy who would come down one's chimney and put toys in one's stocking on Christmas Eve! What a great country, I thought. After I looked up
stocking
in my Chinese-English dictionary, I knew what I had to do.

On that fateful night, after everyone went to bed, I took my longest, cleanest knee sock and attached it to a nail already on the mantel. Obviously, the previous owners of this house were no strangers to this Santa character. Unfortunately, my parents were.

I woke up before everyone else on Christmas Day and ran to the fireplace. To make a sob story short, I was hit with the reality of a flaccid sock and the biggest lie ever told. I indulged in a few tears, quickly took down the sock, and stuffed it in the back of a drawer. Santa was dead.

Every December since then, the topic of Christmas memories would inevitably come up, and I would regale my friends with my poor-little-me story. I had to make it as wry as possible, or else I would cry.

How could I know that Santa was just late? Nine years ago, on Christmas Eve, an older man with a white beard and a red cap knocked on my front door. He said, “I've been looking for you for twenty-five years.” He handed me a bulging red stocking, winked, and left. On top of the stocking was a card. It read: “For Becky—I may have missed you in the second grade, but you've always lived in my heart. Santa.”

Through tear-blurred eyes, I recognized the curlicue handwriting of Jill, a friend I had met just two months before. I later discovered that the older man was her father. Jill had seen the hurt little girl underneath the jaded thirty-something woman and decided to do something about it.

So now I believe that Santa is real. I don't mean the twinkle-eyed elf of children's mythology or the creation of American holiday marketers. Those Santas annoy and sadden me. I believe in the Santa Claus that dwells inside good and thoughtful people. This Santa does not return to the North Pole after a twenty-four-hour delivery frenzy but lives each day purposefully, really listens to friends, and then plans deliberate acts of kindness.

APPENDIX

How to Write Your Own
This I Believe
Essay

We invite you to contribute to this project by writing and submitting your own statement of personal belief. We understand how challenging this is—it requires such intimacy that you may find it difficult to begin. To guide you through this process, we offer these suggestions:

Please submit your completed essay to the
This I Believe
project by visiting the website,
www.thisibelieve.org
. We are eager for your contribution.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, we offer our deepest gratitude to the essayists who contributed their work to this book. We honor their willingness to express the things that matter most and to share their stories in this collection.

In reviving
This I Believe
, we are forever grateful to Casey Murrow, Keith Wheelock, and Margot Wheelock Schlegel, the children of
This I Believe
creators Edward R. Murrow and Ward Wheelock. Our project continues to be guided by Edward R. Murrow and his team, which preceded us in the 1950s: Gladys Chang Hardy, Reny Hill, Donald J. Merwin, Edward P. Morgan, Raymond Swing, and Ward Wheelock.

Very special thanks go to Atlantic Public Media, Inc., in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, where many of these essays were first reviewed. Several essays in this collection were originally broadcast on NPR, and we are thankful to Jay Allison and Viki Merrick for their contribution in editing and producing these essays: “The Power of Hello,” “The Art of Being a Neighbor,” “A Kind and Generous Heart,” “Caring Makes Us Human,” “A Priceless Lesson in Humility,” “Accomplishing Big Things in Small Pieces,” “Deciding to Live,” “Walking in the Light,” “Listening Is Powerful Medicine,” “Our Vulnerability Is Our Strength,” “A Taste of Success,” “Seeing with the Heart,” “To Hear Your Inner Voice,” “Courage Comes with Practice,” “Adapting to the Possibilities of Life,” “A Drive to Achieve the Extraordinary,” “Inviting the World to Dinner,” and “Finding the Flexibility to Survive.” We also appreciate the production assistance provided by Posey Gruener.

Our sincerest thanks to Laura Coons for expert editorial assistance. Her insights and organization were of immense help in bringing this book to life.

We are truly and deeply grateful for our This I Believe, Inc., board of directors, who give their time and talents to strengthening our organization. Thank you to Marty Bollinger, John Y. Brown III, Jerry Howe, David Langstaff, Lynn Amato Madonna, and Declan Murphy.

Our current on-air homes are
The Bob Edwards Show
on Sirius XM Satellite Radio and
Bob Edwards Weekend
on Public Radio International. Our heartfelt thanks go to Bob Edwards and his wonderful staff: Steve Lickteig, Geoffrey Redick, Ed McNulty, Ariana Pekary, Shelley Tillman, Dan Bloom, Andy Kubis, Chad Campbell, and Cristy Meiners. At Sirius XM, we thank Jeremy Coleman, Frank Raphael, and Kevin Straley.

We also want to express our gratitude to everyone at NPR, which aired our radio series for the first four years, especially Jay Kernis, Stacey Foxwell, and Robert Spier, who were passionate and steadfast supporters.

The comprehensive website for
This I Believe
(
thisibelieve.org
) was built by Dennis Whiteman at Fastpipe Media, Inc., and was designed by the folks at LeapFrog Interactive with help from Chris Enander of TBD Design. Our iPhone app was cocreated by Dennis along with Wayne Walrath at Acme Technologies.

The creation of this book was immeasurably aided by our agent, Andrew Blauner, of Blauner Books Literary Agency. We are so fortunate to continue to have his able services and his unwavering support.

Our publisher, John Wiley & Sons, has been tremendously supportive of our recent publishing activities. We are deeply indebted to editor Hana Lane and her entire team for their passion and professionalism. We are deeply grateful especially for the skills and support of Ellen Wright, Lisa Burstiner, Matt Smollon, Mike Onorato, and Laura Cusack.

And, finally, we thank the thousands of individuals who have accepted our invitation to write and to share their own personal statements of belief. This book contains but a fraction of the many thoughtful and inspiring essays that have been submitted to our project, and we are grateful for them all. We invite you to join this group by writing your own
This I Believe
essay and submitting it to us via our website,
thisibelieve.org
. You will find instructions in the appendix of this book on how to do so.